The Game of Perception
by Loveallthenerdiness
Summary: This story is a crossover between Psych, Bones, and Sherlock, the main character being my own female agent, Tatum. Be enthralled as these four (Shawn, Temperance, Sherlock, and Tatum) compete to see who can here the most, deduct the best, and catch the culprit in this one, mind-blowing case. There will be romance, mystery, suspension; all of the above. I promise it won't disappoint
1. Chapter One: The New Job

It was dark. It seemed to always be dark these days. The wind was harsh and blew up dust that stung Tatum's eyes. She missed her nice, warm home in California, U.S.A. Of course she had to be the special agent transferred to Britain. That was just her luck. She had probably been the one agent that didn't want it, with a new boyfriend and nice apartment keeping her grounded in Cali. But her boss had wanted the best for the diplomat police "merging" the United States and England were experimenting. Apparently, that meant her. So she broke up with her boyfriend, sold her nice apartment, and moved to dreary England. She pulled her scarf closer to her neck and hurried down the street to the hotel she was staying at. Tatum had not yet found a place to rent. Britain's housing was rough.

She got to the hotel swiftly, and rushed inside. She was coughing from the dust and her eyes were watering from the night's wind. So far, Tatum did not like her job transfer. It was cold, exhausting, dirty… Just a few _appropriate _that came to mind. She got into the orange elevator and pressed the "4" button. Some classy music was playing, but she was too tired to be annoyed at it. She had just spent the day with an inspector named something Lestrade. Brits had hard names to remember. He was not a bad detective, but he was an amateur.

They had worked a simple robbery case that day that she had wrapped up in twenty minutes. All the evidence had been right there in the room; the shape of the foot impression left on the carpet, the items that were missing, the man that had been robbed... All these made it childishly easy to come to the conclusion of who had done it after taking statements. She just had to check a couple records and she was set. However, Lestrade was still looking for signs of a struggle when she finished the case. So Tatum hadn't said anything. She let him go on his own and solve the case until he got stuck and then she had no choice but to help him. It had taken him fourteen hours to finally arrest the culprit.

All in all, it was an exhausting day.

She got up to her floor, and into the comforts of her hotel room. Locking the heavy door behind her. It was orderly; all her clothes packed in the closet and the cabinet. The sink was empty and the floor spotless. Her bed was made and her bathroom things put in specific orders. That's what happened when you were a highly trained agent; you were obsessive compulsive. Messes made Tatum's anxiety almost unbearable. Even if she took her shoes off in the wrong place, she would immediately have to place them back where they belonged by the door before she could relax. She couldn't complain though. It was nice to never have to worry about a dirty house or dishes to do. It was always done.

Tatum quickly got ready for bed and slid into her sheets. She curled into a ball as she closed her eyes and tried to block out all the horrific scenes that always played across her eyelids when they were closed. Another curse of an agent; they saw things that scarred. Tatum was scarred more than most, because of her special talent. She saw everything. Understood everything. She was always put on the most gruesome cases because she was the only one who could find the clues that would solve the mystery. And those gruesome cases always danced in her brain, a horror show entertainment every night that kept her wide awake.

After hours of trying—and failing—to sleep, she grabbed the bottle from her bedside, and downed her prescribed sleeping pills. She hated being at the mercy of drugs, but they knocked her out. And she knew that if she wanted to live through the transition from California to Britain, she needed sleep.

Only ten minutes after the pill entered her system, Tatum was snoring. Finally, there would be rest for the weary.


	2. Chapter 2: A Curious Call

Sherlock was bored. The dull motions of living made him want to pull his hair out. John was out with Mary, and there were no cases. Everything had been excruciatingly silent since Moriarty had pronounced himself alive. No advances had been made, and Sherlock  
had grown deathly bored of the suspense. He took the syringe from off the side table and analyzed it. He had gone almost half a day without the drugs, but now he could feel his brain turning to mesh. It would cure his bordem for a while, but John  
would be very disappointed. Sherlock thought for a moment. He had never cared before what people thought. He certainly wasn't going to start caring now. His brain would rot without something keeping it entertained.

He held out his arm and slowly injected the morphine. Hisbrain began to buzz as the drug entered his blood stream. As he fell back onto the couch, a fantasy began to build itself in Sherlock's mind. This would keep him excited for hours. At least  
he had found one distraction that did not involve John Watson. Maybe he would survive the whole marriage thing after all.

All he needed was a distraction.

The phone rang. It took those two seconds for Sherlock's fantasy to fall. He had no idea how long it had been up, but it had not been nearly long enough. anger washer over him. He was ready to shoot the mobile phone, the thing that destroyed his distraction.  
Then he read the caller identification.

Lestrade. He was high and getting a call from the chief inspector. He was sure his voice would be a dead giveaway. But he had a mind more advanced than any. He could burn it off if that was what he wanted. So he took a breath and answered the phone.

"Hullo?" His words were slurred. It didn't matter though. If Lestrade wanted to arrest Sherlock then fine. It was worth it.

"Sherlock? What's wrong with you?"

As lousy a detective Lestrade was, he still heard that something was off. That was not going to bother Sherlock though. "Nothing's wrong with me. What's wrong with you?"

"There's no time for your childishness, Sherlock." The detective sounded exasperated and stressed.

Sherlock's mind began to work a little faster. There was obviously a case. That was the only reason Lestrade ever called. The detective was stressed too: that meant a big case. Maybe there was something to finally make a swirl in the straight line of  
life.

Lestrade went on. "We need you, but you must to be on your best behavior. The American police are on their way."

"American police?" Sherlock sat up was getting better and better. "Must be a murder then. Is the victim the American? He'd have to be of high importance for the Americans to come down to Britain. A government worker or a large criminal  
trying to escape. Or the American could be the suspect. If that were the case-"

"Holmes!" Lestrade yelled into the phone. Sherlock had forgotten he was even on the phone. "You can get all the information when you get here. Just hurry. The address has been texted to you. And bring John."

Lestrade hung up before Sherlock could say John was with Mrs. Watson. They weren't expected back for a couple days. Sherlock would just go without him. No one would care. He got his scarf and coat and whipped out the door to hail a taxi, morphine almost  
out of his system already.


	3. Chapter 3: The Plane Ride

Shawn looked around the plane, barely holding in his excitement. He was going to England with his best friend, specifically asked for by the head of England's police force! Or whoever it was. It was something like that. He still felt super cool that he  
had been specifically picked. AndSure, some one of spectacular importance had been murdered to get him there, but it was still exciting.

He looked across the isle where Gus was sitting. He was just as excited as Shawn. They looked at each other and started to squeal. Shawn held out his fist and Gus knocked his own against it.

"What!" They chorused.

"Dude, we're going to England!" Shawn exclaimed. "This is going to be even better than Canada!"

"Of course," Gus scoffed. "Canada sucked."

"Did not," Shawn retorted.

"Did too."

"Liar."

"You weren't even going to bring me! And we almost got killed multiple times." Gus folded his arms stubbornly.

"Liar liar pants on fire!" Shawn replied.

"Attention passengers, we are starting our descent into London, England. Please, all passengers remain in your seats and fasten your seat belts. We will arrive in about twenty minutes."

Shawn and Gus fist bumped again, the past argument forgotten. Twenty minutes and Shawnwould be in Great Britain to solve the biggest case of his psychic career.


	4. Chapter 4: A Quick Lunch

Temperance Brennan sat at the hotel table with Seeley Booth, eating some leftover food from lunch. They were just passing the time until the English police let them into the crime scene. It was completely irrational to Temperance on why she couldn't just  
go in. She had already been there, and was the reason the victim had been identified so quickly. But they had still kicked her out. Now she was stuck waiting for the English police's OK while they would be compromising  
the evidence with every little thing that they touched.

"Royal Diner's burgers are better," Booth said, setting the half-eaten hamburger on his plate. He smiled at her, and she felt her heart lighten just a bit. "It'll be O.K., Bones. We'll get in, and we'll get the evidence we need. You've dealt with compromised  
crime-scenes before."

She wasn't as sure. Regular police were known for messing up her crime-scenes. And every pieceofcompromised evidence made it harder for her to solve the crime, and made her findings less precise. Besides, she didn't have her team, or the Jeffersonian  
to aid her.

Booth gave her his hard but kind look. "Bones, stop worrying. It'll all work out."

"I'm worried about Christine," she said, allowing herlie to become truth in her heart. She really was worried for her little girl. She got up to find her coat. They really needed to leave soon.

Booth sighed. "We've talked about this, remember? She'll be fine. She's a big girl now, and she's with Hogins and Angela. They'll take really good care of her."

She knew that. She knew that her daughter was perfectly safe. She tried to calm herself, and shrugged on her jacket. "The British Police should let me in now, let's go."

"Ah, c'mon Bones. I haven't finished my burger yet," Booth complained.

Temperance sighed impatiently. "Hurry, I don't trust these people. I don't know what they're doing to my crime scene."

Booth rolled his eyes, and stood, also retrieving his coat. He came over by her and stopped in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Sweetheart, not to rain on your parade, but here we're the guests. We have to be respectful of their ways  
of doing things. They can kick us out at any time, and we won't be able to do anything. My badge is worthless here. So please, be respectful."

Temperance frowned. "I don't have a parade."

Booth smiled and kissed her. "Don't worry about it. Let's go."

Temperance glanced around, subduing her anxiety. "Thank you."

They left the hotel to hail a taxi that would lead them to the crime scene.


	5. Chapter 5: The Angel's Case

Dean got out of the motel bathroom, his stomach still knotted. Gosh, he hated flying. And he missed his baby a lot more than he'd admit; she was his only true home. The bunker was nice, but after Ezekial and Kevin, it was hard to be really comfortable.  
It always lurked in the back of his mind. He had been riding in the impala since he was four years old, driving it since he was 19. That home had never disappointed him.

"Hey, Dean, come take a look at this," Sam called from the table by the beds. He was locked in on his computer screen.

Dean tried to swallow his nausea and walked over to his little brother. "Did you find that son of a bitch?"

"No-well, kind of." Sam glanced up at him, back at his computer screen, then at Dean again. "You feeling all right?"

Dean clenched his teeth, his stomach slowly relaxing. "I'll be fine. What do you got for me?"

Sam swallowed a laugh, and Dean glared down at him—which didn't happen often. Sam was a disgusting four inches taller than himself. "What's so funny?"

Sam shook his head. "Just, after all we've been through, and you're STILL scared of flying? I think it's…ironic. That's all."

"Shut up, and tell me what I need to know," Dean growled.

Sam smirked and turned back to the laptop. He pointed at a news article he'dpulled up. "Five stabbings in the last two weeks."

Dean shrugged. "So?"

"So," his brother responded. "I looked through all the police reports and they say sulfur was found at the scene, with a distinct smell of rotten eggs."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Demons?"

Sam nodded. "It's weak, I know, but I think this's why Cas sent us here."

Dean shook his head. "But why us? There's a whole Hunting community here in England."

"Well, a lot of the victims here are American, the rest ambassadors. I don't know, but it kind of sounds like this demon is calling out to hunters in the U.S."

Dean thought on that. "That's a bit far—fetched, but since we're here we mine as well check it out." He went to grab his leather coat. "You sure there's nothing else that's pointing to a supernatural killer?"

"Uh…" Sam clicked a few things, squinting. "They haven't released anything to the press."

"Hey, get this," Sam called a minute later, standing up and slamming his laptop closed. "A call just came in over the police radio. Another body was just found."

"Perfect." Dean switched tracks and went for his tux. "Suit up, Sammy."

"Wait a sec," Sam warned. Dean turned and looked impatiently at his brother, who then pointed out: "What are we going to do, just walk in and say we're FBI? That won't work here, it's not America."

Dean shrugged. "We'll say we're the…" He searched for words. "International Crime Investigators… ICI's."

Sam laughed. "Seriously?"

"Serious," Dean defended, continuing to his bag. "Like the Brits will care; they're probably desperate for some help. And Cas will zap 'em if they don't let us in."

"Where is Cas?" Sam switched over.

Dean's heart dropped, but he covered it with an annoyed anger. "I don't know. Don't care. We went through this phase with him before, and I'm not interested in doing it again."

"He's the one who sent us here," Sam reminded him. "Don't you think he'd want to be here?"

"Why are you asking me?" he demanded harshly. "If he wanted to be here, I think that's where he'd be."

"Okay, sorry." Sam put his big hands up in a mock surrender. "It's just; you guys have a...a special connection. I thought you might know."

"You need to stop saying that," Dean muttered. "We do not have a special connection."

Sam seemed unconvinced but went along with it anyway. "Okay. Whatever. Suit up ICI, so we can catch this demon."

Dean glared. He hated it when people said Castiel and him had a special bond. They didn't. Especially since Dean had become a Demon, Castiel had grown cold and distant towards him. Sam had a better relationship with the Angel than Dean did right then.  
No one would believe him though. Everyone had their hearts set on Cas being Dean's dog.

"I'll meet you in the rental," Dean told Sam. "Hurry your butt up."


	6. Chapter 6: A Big Team

Tatum pulled her coat closer to her as she walked swiftly down the sidewalk. She had asked the cabman to drop her off around the block so she could walk down to the crime scene. It always helped her get into the mindset she needed to see everything. It  
seemed a smart idea today especially, because she could smell the stink from where she was a street away. As she walked, she pictured the suspected victim: Charles Dunn, a forty-four year old American man. He was an old friend of the president's,  
and a retired CEO of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There were no known reasons for him to be in England. He had a 42 year old wife and two kids at the ages of 18 and 21.

Tatum took a breath as she approached the crime-scene tape. She entered the ally, and immediately took in everything. This alley blocked out most sun-light. It was dark with only one dumpster, so not many bums would choose refuge here. The one dumpster  
had been tipped over by the terrible wind that had flown through the city last night. A decomposed male body lay on the ground, half covered in a black garbage bag. The entire place stunk. His body, Tatum noticed as she criticized it from her place  
in the corner, had been decomposing for about a month. His skin was blistered and everywhere forensics touched it, it began to peel off. The hair was gone, as well as some teeth, and the fingernails were shriveled. There was no blood on the ground,  
but it was likely that this was the place where the murder occurred, and the evidence simply washed away with the month's weather.

His clothing was one of a nice event. He wore an expensive suit that was ripped up and eaten by bugs and rodents. His tie was missing. She could not see his feet, so she couldn't determine if he still had his shoes, which would give her a lot of information  
she wanted. A red stain dominated the white shirt where it rested on his inflated chest. A tear—which looked like it came from a Sabre Clip bladed knife—was centered in the circle of blood. An identical stab mark radiated on his stomach. One of those  
wounds werethe cause of death.

There was a woman kneeling over the body, carefully looking into the mouth and poking around the clothing. She was clearly familiar and not in the least disturbed by decomposed bodies. There was no doubt that she was the forensic anthropologist that had  
identified the body as a mid-forties Caucasian male that was most likely a wealthy U.S. citizen. She had been nearby when the body had been found and the first to be at the scene. Her findings led the English police to contact the American FBI. Soon  
after, Scotland Yard was informed that Charles Dunn was missing. The President of the United States immediately sent one of his best teams up, and asked for Tatum to work the case.

"I need Hodgins here," the anthropologist complained to herself. "He needs to take bug samples and then clean off the skin so I can confirm that this is Charles Dunn."

"It fits his profile though, right?" a man asked.

Tatum glanced over and choked on her breath. The man was standing besides the forensic anthropologist. He too was American, in casual clothes holding a small booklet and a pen, taking notes on what the woman was saying. The problem was: She knew him.  
He was FBI agent Seeley Booth, which meant that the forensic anthropologist was Temperance Brennan from the team that worked at the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D.C. How did they get sucked into a case on a couple's vacation, and why did it  
have to be here at Tatum's crime scene? She just wouldn't say anything and hopefully he wouldn't recognize her and/or he just wouldn't see her; at least not until she was done scoping out the scene. There wasn't time for petty pasts. Especially not  
one as messy as theirs.

Forensics crawled over the alley way, taking samples of everything. Inspector Lestrade was talking to the man who had found the body. An emergency vehicle blocked off most of the entrance, and a gurney sat beside the body, waiting for Brennan to finish  
her examination so it could take the body away. A crowd had gathered on either side of the ally, but the crime scene tape kept them away, along with some constables standing along the alley's mouths.

While Tatum took another look around the ally, a man came sweeping into the scene. His long black coat fanned out behind him, carried by the wind while his ice-blue Paul Smith scarf sat tightly against his thin, pale neck. His gray eyes were sharp and  
his black hair ruffled as he marched into the crime scene. He squatted by the body, and took off his black leather gloves, stuffing them into his right coat pocket. Tatum had never seen such a dramatic entrance in real life.

"Excuse me," Brennan started harshly as the man pulled out a little magnifying glass and started examining the body. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for evidence, obviously," the man muttered, leaning close to the body. He paused after a moment, and looked up. "You're American." He looked at Brennan's wardrobe. "Interesting. I thought American police had a dress code." He went back to his  
work, moving around the body, and almost pushed Brennan out of his way.

Brennan looked at Booth, completely perplexed and a little more than upset. He just shrugged, grinning. Tatum was holding back a laugh. This man was something she had never seen before: strange, obviously oblivious to other people's feelings, very enveloped  
in his work. By the way he carried himself, he believed himself intelligent, and the way he examined the body, he seemed well-educated. Tatum was immediately intrigued, but who was he?

"Holmes, where's John?" Lestrade asked as he walked up to the man.

"Busy," the man – Holmes…something answered, not bothering to look up from the body.

"Who is this man?" Brennan demanded. "He may be compromising evidence!"

"Bones," Booth started. "Remember, we're the guests."

Holmes looked up sharply at Brennan. Tatum was intrigued to see that his eyes had changed to a sort of green-blue. "I am very well capable of handling a crime-scene, Madam. You are a forensic Anthropologist. Though you spend time out in the field, you  
know the bones and how to examine them in a lab. You don't know flesh well. If anyone is compromising evidence it's you."

He said it so calm. It wasn't fiery or rough. It was almost just… an observation. And after he had said his peace, Holmes went back to his work. Tatum had no idea how Holmes knew Dr. Brennan was an anthropologist.

Booth and Brennan were stunned.

"Sorry, let me introduce a consultant we are hiring onto the case. Agent Booth, Doctor Brennan, meet Sherlock Holmes, our consulting detective." Inspector Lestrade took a stressed breath. "He's a little, free-spirited, pardon him."

"I would apologize if I felt bad, Lestrade," Sherlock Holmes commented as he lay his head on the ground next to the victim's. He popped back up. "And you did not hire me."

Tatum wondered what that meant, but Lestrade just rolled his eyes and didn't elaborate. She also wondered what the heck a "consulting detective" was. Sherlock Holmes stood up and put his little magnifying glass into his coat pocket. "It seems with the  
activity that you know who this man is. I imagine he is American yes? That's why they're here." He gestured to Booth and Brennan. "He's in his mid forties and wealthy. He was a field agent for many years and took a shot in his left shoulder when he  
was in his mid-thirties, about ten years ago. He's married, but unsatisfied. An affair is evident – "

His speech was so fast Tatum almost missed an opportunity to interrupt. "Hold on a second." She took a step out of the shadows. Everyone looked a little surprised: Tatum had been better than she thought at sneaking in unseen. Sherlock, however, looked  
utterly unsurprised and completely annoyed as she continued. "Where are you getting any of this? It all sounds like guess work."

She glanced at Booth, and saw his mouth drop open. She quickly returned her gaze to Sherlock Holmes, a small blush warming her face. Dang it. She should have been able to keep that in.

"I never guess," Holmes retorted, looking as if she had attempted to insult him. "It's obvious." He moved to the body. He had earlier removed the garbage bag, and now pointed to the legs. "His leg and feet muscles, easily seen without the flesh, are well  
worn and strong, meaning he moved around often. He also did a lot of hurried sitting-to-standing exercises, according to his thigh muscles. Most field agents have the same muscle development. His arms were well developed, and the muscles in his right  
fingers show that he held a gun often and pulled the trigger many times, most likely in practice than real targets, however. As for his wealth, it is amateur work. By his apparel, choice of shoe and wedding ring, he has plenty of money to spend in  
which-whatever way he wants.

"You can see the damaged bone through the thin muscle where the bullet hit. You can tell by the amount of muscle around the injury and the way it is shaped that he acquired that wound about ten years ago, or when he was in his mid-thirties, as we can  
tell by developments in many places that he is in his mid forties.

"His wedding ring. It's rusty, never been polished. And although the skin on his fingers are gone, we would be able to tell that he took off his ring often by the discoloration. For now, if you look inside the ring, it will be more polished than the outside  
– once you clean it off. That will show that the act of taking it off and putting it back on polished the inside, but he didn't care to actually polish any of it. They are primary facts. I've seen this same ring trick in many cases."

Holmes put his hands in his coat pockets, with a yeah I'm that good look in his eyes but no emotion on his face. Tatum narrowed her eyes, folding her arms. "Mediocre work for a man who studied the body so exquisitely."

His eyebrows shot up. "You believe you can do better, Madam-"

"Frazier and I know I can do better because I got more than half of that from my spot on the corner, Mr. Holmes."

"And I doubt you could gain more if you studied the body," Holmes answered.

"You underestimate my observation skills."

"And you underestimate mine, American." Holmes now glared. "I know, for one, that you and agent Booth share a past. I can tell by the way that his back straightened and his jaw fell when he saw you that you two were involved in a relationship, most likely  
sexual, as well as work related. It is obvious by the way that you only briefly glanced at him that you two have not been in contact for many years and that things in between you did not end well."

Tatum's cheeks burned. She refused to look at Booth. For Heaven's sake his wife was right there! She returned Holmes glare, and studied him, trying to find something about him. She remembered Lestrade's comment of John, and everything became obvious.  
"You are very disconnected from the world." She remembered how he almost pushed Brennan over as if she wasn't there. "You are often reminded that you have no conscience; that you are barely human." His eye twitched when she said that. "You are independent,  
and usually do not care what people think of you. Well, until you met that one person you work with: John."

His eyes reacted just as she wanted them to. "You depend on John for everything. He is your only friend, and the thing you value above anything else. He is your working partner, and you trust him and only him. Would you like me to go on?"

It was now Sherlock Holmes's turn to flush. "Conjecture. You have no evidence. Your conclusions would never hold up in court."

"I'm trained in psychology. I just read you part of your file. This doesn't need concrete evidence, just my professional opinion."

Holmes clenched his teeth, but said nothing. She bit back a sneer. She had won this round.

"Agent Frazier. Mr. Holmes, please. We are the presence of a dead body," Lestrade pleaded.

"And?" Sherlock asked, turning his hawk gaze on the inspector.

"It's disrespectful," Lestrade sighed.

"He can't hear what we're saying."

Brennan raised here eyebrows, some approval in her eyes. Tatum took another quick glance at Booth. He was red, his face serious. Their eyes met, and a clear message rang out. We need to talk. She looked away, his Chocolate eyes threatening to open the  
dam in her chest right there and then. Besides, she did not want to talk to Seeley Booth.. She had thought he was a memory of the past, and wanted to keep it that way.

Tatum pulled herself out of the moment and refocused on the crime scene.

"Holmes!" Lestrade interjected.

"It's no matter, I'm done here," Sherlock said. "I'll be at 221 B Baker Street if you need me – which I'm sure you will soon."

Holmes whipped away, his coat flaring dramatically.

Tatum looked after him, curiosity boosted even higher. She looked down, rewinding and re-watching their meeting in her mind.

The forensics team began to put the body in a bag as another taxi came up, and two people poured out. Tatum was initially confused by their appearances: a white man in his late thirties who was dressed casually and was looking around like a child, and  
a black man of the same age who was looking around trying to look cool but failing, and dressed in a office-job outfit. She had no idea who they were.

Lestrade came up to the pair while everyone continued to work. Tatum watched them from her little corner, which she had receded back to after her confrontation with Sherlock Holmes. They were not very impressive, and most of the people there ignored them.

"You must be the team that was sent from America. Santa Barbara, California, right?" Lestrade started, holding out his hand.

"Right." The Caucasian took the lead, shaking Lestrade's hand. "I Am the head psychic detective, Shawn Spencer, and this – " he pointed to the office guy. "Is my partner Jonulberry Frunkensteen."

Tatum snorted, drawing Shawn's eyes to her. "No really, that's his name. His parents were big fans of Mel Brooks."

"Shawn," 'the black man muttered, giving him a what the heck? look.

Tatum raised her eyebrows, looking him over. He was average height and build. With her profiling expertise, Tatum deduced that Mr. Spencer was intelligent but ashamed of that fact, so he hid it with sarcasm and humor. His hair was dark and his eyes were  
sharp. He had a wedding ring. Spencer and the other guy, whatever his real name was, shared a very strong friendship; an almost inseparable one. She could tell by the way they stayed close to each other and the way they communicated with each other.

The ruse of a psychic detective was what pulled her attention ultimately. "Though I don't believe his name is Jonulberry, I even more don't believe that you're a psychic," Tatum told Spencer truthfully.

Spencer looked at his partner with a smile. "Ah, a skeptic. Well, I guess we'll just have to show her."

She rolled her eyes.

Spencer put his fingers to his forehead. He looked ridiculous. "I can tell that you… are new here, but are planning on staying."

She was unimpressed. It was immediate what he was doing. He was taking the gift that he had, the one that they shared – the gift of perception – and selling himself as a psychic. She could have done it too, if she was immature and insecure. "Please. What  
gave that away? The accent or the list of homes for sale in my pocket that I was reading on the taxi cab here?"

Spencer was stunned.

"My name is Gus, by the way," Spencer's partner said to break the silence. "I'm just a pharmaceutical salesman."

Tatum smiled politely. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got things to attend to. Have fun with the crowd, psychic. We will bring you down."

Shawn Spencer swallowed nervously as Tatum turned and walked back down the street to hail a taxi. She was about to leave when yet another car pulled up to the scene. And surprise, surprise, it was two more Americans. Tatum knew this because she could  
hear one of them complain about the steering wheel being on the wrong side. This time, though, it wasn't a taxi. It was a rental car which was more than rare in England. Tatum inspected these men. They were dressed like FBI agents, but everything  
else about them screamed street boys. One was much taller than the other, but the shorter man's face was darker and deeper, with a scarred expression that Tatum saw every time she looked into a mirror. They had a presence though; when they shut the  
car doors and looked around, everything quieted. Over half of the eyes there turned to the big men who had their own car. They came walking in confidently, ducking under the tape and up to the body. The smell hit them and they both groaned, turning  
their noses away. They seemed very in sync with each other, and for a moment Tatum thought they might be together.

"Who's in charge here?" The shorter man asked. His voice was deep and rough.

Eyes glanced around as each of the teams wondered that question. Who was in charge? Then Lestrade stepped forward. "I am. Who're you?"

The new recruits each pulled out a badge and opened them for only a half a second while the short one introduced. "I'm, uh, Inspector Cruiz, and this is my partner Inspector Elliot. We are from the ICI—"

Tatum stepped forward like she had with Sherlock Holmes. "The ICI? I've never heard of that."

Inspector Cruiz looked cornered, but Inspector Elliot jumped right into an explanation. "International Crime Inspection. It's an underground organization the U.S. FBI has set up—"

"Wait," Agent Booth interrupted. Man, it hurt to just hear his voice. "I'm an FBI agent, I've never heard of an ICI."

Inspector Elliot now looked flustered, so Cruiz took over. "Only the top class of the FBI does. No field agents have been told."

Tatum was skeptical. It was more than obvious that they were making this stuff up on the spot, but they looked like they knew what they were doing, and that made her doubt herself. She could see an International Crime Inspection being formed. It made  
sense. Wasn't that kind of what she was?

"Anymore questions, or can we go on?" Cruiz asked impatiently. No one spoke, so he stepped closer to the body, trying to cover up obvious disgust. "Tell us what's goin' on here."

Tatum didn't really like this guy. His manner was rude and narcissistic. But she stayed quiet and Dr. Brennan gave him the details.

"And you are…?" He asked, glancing up from his paper after she was done.

"Doctor Temperance Brennan, forensic Anthropologist from the Jeffersonian in Washington D.C."

Cruiz raised his eyebrows, going back to his paper. "O-Kay."

"You said that this man has been dead a month, right?" Elliot clarified.

"Well, more like three weeks and five—"

"Bones," Booth interrupted. "A month." He turned back to the inspectors. "Yes, a month."

The inspectors traded looks, and it clicked. They were brothers. She could see the resemblance; the way they held themselves, the curve on the chins and height of their cheekbones. Brothers… So why were they using different last names?

The shorter one turned his back, but as he whispered Tatum still caught his words: "The sulfur is long gone if there was any. How do we know if this is even what we're looking for?"

What the heck? Tatum thought. What were they talking about?

"Thank you, we will keep in touch," Elliot stated, and the Inspectors withdrew. Tatum was perplexed, but didn't know what to say. She also didn't need to be there anymore, and she didn't want to be cornered by Booth. So walked to the steer to hail a taxi.  
She needed to take a shower; she smelled like dead guy. And then she was going to check 221 B Baker Street.


	7. Chapter 7 The Flat

The research was slow. Sherlock had spent the last hour glued to his computer, searching forCharles Dunn. He'd gotten so desperate he was now looking for even a gossip for something this man had done. He was a prominent U.S. citizen. He worked for  
the U. , and was childhoodfriends of people high up in that government. This kept his information classified and hard to find. Sherlock sneered at the screen, not upset at no information, but relishing the opportunity to do  
more research.

He clicked on a link and was immediately rewarded. It was the mother load of the victim's life, including further links to justify the information. As Sherlock scrolled through the content,though, he found no reason for the man to get murdered.  
The evidence suggested he was just an average scrolled down further, wondering maybe he'd been killed for classified FBI information. That's when he found a juicy part of themeat. Two years prior, Charles Dunn had killed a man. It had gone on  
trial, and Charles had been declared non—guiltyon reason of self defense. The incident had been sealed and forgotten.

"Hmmm," Sherlock mused. He looked a little longer, and found files of a distraught wife. Charles had put a restraining order out on her. There were multiple counts of harassment. The U.S. government had covered up such a bigdeal very well. Sherlockthen  
researchedthe angry wife. Her life was quiet until her husband was killed. Then she was all over, and Sherlock became instantly annoyed with all the rumors. He had to dig to find herpersonal information,which was frustrating. Finally,  
though, Sherlock found what he needed. Shaleene Drake; 35 years old, lived with her husband in Virginia U.S.A. until he was killed. She tried to get justice for his death, and when she realizedthat wouldn't happen,she relocated to the one and  
only London England. Looked like Sherlock had someone to talk to.

He grabbed his coat and scarf, pulled on his gloves, and hurried to the door. He whipped it open, saw a body, and stopped short, his coat twisting around him. He looked curiously down at the personblocking his doorway, andwas surprised to  
see the Agent Fraizer standing there, slowly lowering her hand. He frowned. "What're you doing here?"

She cocked her head to the side slightly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to find the answer before she did, but there was nothing. She was good at hiding her thoughts. He knew she'd just gotten there, though. He could tellthat much. Her cheeks  
were still red from the biting wind, and when he'd opened the door, she'd been about to knock. That knowledge gave him a little edge, a little bit more power.

"Saw your apartment on the market. I'm looking for a place to stay," she answered.

Sherlock crinkled his eyebrows. "I didn't place an add—John." He glared above Agent Fraizer 's head. "John put an add in the papers. He looked back down at the agent. "I have an extra room, true. But I never said that I wanted a roommate."

Agent Frazier's eyes raised. It was clear that she was confident and determined. He could see it in her set jaw and steady position. He tried to read her again, and came up with nothing. Well, actually came up with too much thatdidn't make sense  
was like reading Mary all over again, but worse. He couldn't get anything of worth.

He rolled his eyes, and stepped away from the doorway, allowing her into his flat. She wasn't leaving, so he mine as well get it over with. It may be nice to have the help with rental payment so he could spend more on research

anyway. Shestrolledin and looked around, much like the way that he looked at his surroundings. She criticized his researching mess that had grown since John moved out.

"Looks like you keep busy," she commented, moving into the kitchen. Her American accent buzzed through Sherlock's brain. He was unused to it, and that annoyed him.

"I have to keep busy," he retorted. he felt the disgusting need to defend himself. "If I don't my mind will destroy itself."

She nodded. "I can appreciate that. But—what do you do?"

"Research," he told her.

"What kind?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as she walked down the hall to his bedroom. She was asking quite a lot of questions. He couldn't decided if that wasimpressive or a nuisance. "Science. It is the field that interests me the

most."

"Nice." She turned back around which startled Sherlock even though he had seen it happen before it did.

"You said you have another room?"

"Upstairs," he replied. "Just the room."

"I'll take it." She had gotten back to the main room.

Sherlock tried to read her for a third time. Nothing. Why was she so hard to read? He had never had that much trouble. Even with Mary. "Fine. I'll check in with Mrs. Hudson, tell her there is another moving in."

"Another?" she asked.

Sherlock turned around, striding back to his computer. "Yes, another." He did not want to talk about John. In fact, he was done talking to her in total.

"I guess we're done?" Agent Fraizer responded to his turning away.

_Picked up on that did you?_ Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and faced her, annoyed. "Yes, Agent Fraizer, unless you have something else to add?"

"It's Tatum," she corrected. "And I guess not. I'll bring my stuff over tomorrow." She glanced at his computer. "You have a lead?"

Sherlock didn't take his hawk eyes away from her. "I have a possible lead, yes."

She raised an expectant eyebrow at him. "Are you going to share with the team?"

Sherlock considered that. "No." He worked better alone. He didn't have a doubt about that.

"C'mon Sherlock," she tried, giving him a small smile. "We have to work together."

"You observed at the crime scene that I work with one person only. I do not know why you think I would make an exception." His voice came old cold and detached, exactly like he'd planned.

Her smile melted and she glared at him, which, for some reason, troubled him. It did not bother him when someone hated him, but she made his stomach knot. He was pushing her away though. That's what he wanted.

"We are on the same team, Mr. Holmes," she reminded him. "Working on the same case. If we don't work together, the murderer could go loose."

"I won't let him get away." Sherlock tightened his scarf. "Lock up when you are done." He brushed past her and slammed the door behind him.


	8. Second Thoughts

"Food." Shawn looked around at the restaurant then back at his oldest blackest friend. "It is the most amazing thing in the universe." They locked eye contact and Shawn grinned. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

There was a second of silence, and they chorused: "Waffles!"

They gave each other knuckles and picked up their menus to find their favored food. However, thedecomposing body quenched his appetite. "I don't know if I can eat after that nasty crime

scene," he admitted to Gus.

"I hear that," Gus answered. He shook his head. "That was disgusting."

"You've been going on for ten minutes about what your going to eat!" Shawn complained, disregarding his own lost appetite.

Gus pointed the forked he'd just rolled out of his napkin at Shawn "A man has to eat. Whether he wants to or not."

Shawn rolled his eyes, though he silently agreed.

A waitress came and took their drink orders. Gus stared down Shawn. "Alright, let's go over this case to get a head start."

"Aw c'mon Gus," Shawn immediately whined. "Can't the case wait a couple minutes?"

"This isn't a vacation, Shawn," Gus reprimanded. "We are here to solve the case. It can't and won't wait. There is a dead man and a mass murderer on the loose."

Shawn frowned. "Mass murderer?"

Gus glared at him. "You didn't pay any attention at the crime scene did you?"

Shawn shrugged. "Sure I did. I saw the body, those two weird and freakishly tall investigators, and that rude Agent."

"Did you get anything about the case?"

"Mmm…" Shawn pursed his lips and shook his head. "Nah not really. I knew I could just get it from you after."

"Even after all these years, and you still haven't grown up," his best friend complained.

"Alright, alright. Just tell me the details."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Apparently in the last two weeks there have been five stabbings." The waitress came and dropped off their drinks, and then Gus continued. "The firsts twowere a week apart, but same MO," Gus continued. "And they slowly got more  
frequent."

Shawn nodded. "Okay, but the body looked liked he'd been dead for like a month."

"The professionals are thinking he was the first," Gus added.

"So that makes six victims." Shawn creases his forehead. "Why are they calling everyone in now, if there have been five other crime scenes before this one?"

"Agent Fraizer, who you so kindly turned the wrong way," Gus said, giving him a disappointed look, "Has been on the case with Lestrade from the beginning. Sherlock Holmes, whowe missed, has been consulting on and off. Pretty low key. He was officially  
brought on today, because they can't seem to figure it out and they don't want the body count go get any higher. They say he's the best." Now his eyes were a bit mocking."You up for the challenge?"

Shawn scoffed, but Agent Fraizer's words rattled inside his brain. "Of course I'm ready."

"Good, because there's even more than that." Gus stuffed a piece of waffle drenched in syrup into his mouth. "The ICI guys; no one knows where they came from, but from what Isaw at the crime scene, they're good. They've also been brought on as of  
today. The pair that were close to the body, Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth…"

Shawn looked into his memory and pulled out the couple. They had also seemed very, very well trained. Shaun's heart fluttered nervously. It was going to be hard to hold onto his façade withall these people challenging him. It would even worse than  
when he had competed with Declan. And that guy has spotted Shawn as a fake in a day. Who knew; these teams might already know. Agent Fraizer definitely thought he was.

"Brennan is going to help with the body, get us physical evidence," Gus wrapped up. "Booth will be working with Fraizer I think, from what I heard."

"You mean while you were eavesdropping," Shawn corrected.

"Shut up Shawn." He glared, but continued. "We're paired off, but Lestrade said we're all the same team still. It's very, very strange."

Shawn nodded. "Okay. So what about the body? What do we know? Suspects?" Shawn looked back through the crime scene in his mind, but he wasn't good with decomposed bodies and nothing

stood out. It all looked like molded steak.

"Nothing much. There were two stab wounds in each victim," Gus put the case file Lestrade had handed out on the table. "Okay, so one was in each victim's stomach and chest. Thesame blade was used for each stab for each victim."

Shawn felt a chill race down his back. Ever since the whole Yin—Yang fiasco, he had real problems with serial killers. Oh well, he couldn't back away now. "Alright. Stabbing serial killing for about a month for what we know. What  
you think Gus? Kind of sounds like that one time you spend a month in Mexico last year."

"Shawn," Gus Chastized.

The waitress came to order their meals. Each told her what they wanted and handed in their menus. Shawn had lost his appetite. Again. He'd let all the doubts slip into his head that he triedso hard to resist. It had definitely been a bad idea to  
come up here, but he didn't know what to do about that. Gus would never just let him go home. If he stayed,there was not a doubt in his mind he'd be outed, though. That could land him behindbars.

He pushed the thoughts away. Food came, and Slowly the talk slipped out of the case and into a more casual genre. Shawn let his mind slip too, and the case faded to the back of his brain. Itwould be there tomorrow; today would be for enjoying his  
friend.


	9. The Backstory

Temperance didn't say anything on the way back to the hotel. Not only did her husband have some type of secret past with an attractive, educated woman, but he'd also been paired with her, while Temperance was stuck working with amateurs who didn't  
/know how to handle a dead body. All that gave her nothing to say. A couple times, Booth tried to explain, and she'd stopped him. It wasn't a discussion she wanted to have in a dirty taxi with an eavesdropping driver.

Finally, they got to the hotel. Still, she said nothing until they had made it into the room. As soon as that door was shut, she turned her glare on him. He blanched under her stare.

"Bones—" Booth started.

"If you lie to me," she interrupted. "Once, even once, Booth—"

"I won't, Bones, I promise." He seemed almost frantic. "Just let me explain, okay? Without interruption."

Temperance folded her arms across her chest. If he didn't want any interruptions she just wouldn't talk at all.

"Alright, I guess that means I need to start..."

She gave him a no-duh look, and was rewarded by an intimidated expression on her husband's face.

"Okay, I met Tatum when I was fresh out of the academy," Booth started face tight. "So way before you. In fact, we were long over before I even met you." He began pacing, clearly agitated. "Gosh, I haven't thought of her in a

long time. Okay. She was my best friend at the time's partner. They were working a case together in Cincinnati, and called me in to consult. And… We grew closer, I guess. I don't remember how, really, but I know we did, and after the case was finished,I  
kissed her. After that, whenever she was in town we met up. It started out with just coffee breaks, but it-the relationship escalated. When she was transferred to the same jurisdiction as me, we together a ton."

He paused. Temperance felt kind of sick, and more than a little jealous. Of course, that was completely irrational, but she couldn't stop the chemicals leaking into her brain. "How'd it end?" she asked, wanting the tale to be over, but needing

to know it all.

Booth flinched. "She cheated on me, with the commander of our area." Booth took a breath. "She was transferred to California once the Director found out. We, obviously split up. I never saw her after that and I kinda just forgot about her."

"How long did your relationship last?" Temperance questioned.

"About Four months from the night we kissed. I think we worked together for about two."

Temperance hated hearing that. She turned away, but Booth rushed over to her and grabbed her shoulders, stooping down to catch his wife's gaze. "But that was years ago, Bones, ok? I promise I don't feel anything for her. It's just awkward becauseour  
relationship ended so badly. I love you, though Bones. You."

Temperance couldn't resist those sad brown eyes. She kissed him. "I trust you."

He kissed her again, and they stumbled to the bed.


End file.
